


Oriol

by deadplanet



Category: Original Work
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Gay Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-09 17:03:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadplanet/pseuds/deadplanet
Summary: Oriol is a closeted cross-dresser shunned for expressing himself in unconventional ways. After moving out of his parents' house, he finds himself ripped away from normal life by a prostitute and a famous clothing designer.





	1. 1

To be fair, wearing dresses to public outings as the first-born son of a noble family was dangerous. Spending money behind my parents’ backs, visiting shifty areas of the city during shifty hours of the night, and my general reckless behavior was the chocolate frosting on top of a five-layer cake. 

Layer one- frustration  
Layer two- common teen angst, completely unnecessary and completely unexceptional  
Layer three- disregard for the rules carefully disguised as a “fun-loving personality”  
Layer four- unrealized self-destruction  
Layer five- a very large public humiliation

I was taking a large slice of that cake, savoring each layer as if it didn’t stink of rotting meat. My parents were having none of it.   
After being caught in my mother’s closet as a young boy and witnessing my parent’s respect and love for their only child, my passion only grew. I adored anything to do with beauty, and wanted all of it. And so my wish was granted. My father often took me to the women’s shop under the pretense of buying a nice gift for my mother or some other female relative and bought me whatever caught my eye. They sought to please me in any way they could, and I repaid them with a ridiculous act of impulse.  
At age seventeen, I felt pressures from my aging mother and dying father to take charge of the household and keep state. As the only heir, it was my duty. As someone far too young to be charged with this responsibility, it was a ridiculous and tedious task meant only to keep me from better, more interesting things.  
I acted out, but secretly. It was noticed, but not fought or really ever brought to attention. This upset me, because of course what I was doing was throwing a tantrum in order to draw attention. So I plotted something better than sneaking out late at night or becoming very obviously and very loudly drunk at social gatherings. It was something I’d always wanted to do but never felt the courage nor the approval of my parents to do.   
It started off with my usual visit to the women’s shop with my father, where I saw a ball gown. Pink, adorned with frills and lace, and easily the most eye-catching piece I’d come across. Of course, I didn’t ask for it. If I asked for it, it would take away my angry teenage edge. Rebels don’t just ask their parents for anything they want, I thought. I admired it from a distance. Checked to make sure it was pricey enough that the money I’d be stealing from my parents would be noticeably absent. Started to form a plan.  
The birth of my newest cousin would be celebrated with the sort of formal ball where every noble and friend of noble appeared for the sake of making an appearance. When I realized the gown would be perfect for this occasion, I nearly drooled with excitement. On the way home from the store, I dreamed of the moment I would walk in. My gown would be tailored to fit me as exactly as a gown could be. My face would be framed with pretty jeweled earrings and my mother’s most expensive necklace. All eyes would fall on me when I walked through the front doors of the venue, approximately one hour late. Women would seethe with jealously, men would flush with anger, everyone would stand with mouths hanging and eyes wide.   
Then came the careful siphoning of money, the terrifying but otherwise ‘necessary’ (necessary for my cause, though my cause was absolutely unnecessary) meetings at odd times of night, the eventual purchase of the dress, and the fitting and tailoring.   
As one might predict, my debut as the prettiest boy at Aunt Margaret’s party did not go as expected. I swept into the party with a confident air and found a room full of angry and/or disgusted faces. Slurs were shouted, drinks were thrown, tears were shed, and a very, very expensive dress was ruined by my aunt’s oldest son.   
My parents, in all their shame, punished me publicly with harsh words and harsher actions, and then privately with a basic excommunication. I was given a suitcase and twelve hours to openly apologize to my Aunt Margaret and everyone else at the party or leave. Because the word ‘young’ usually holds hands with the word ‘stupid,’ I was out of the house within three hours.

Which is exactly how I ended up talking to the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on outside of a place stinking of alcohol and cigarettes.


	2. Chapter 2

I’d been sleeping in the alleyway behind a building whose customers entertained and confused me for three days when my first police confrontation happened.  
“Hey,” he said, kicking me to gain my attention. I looked up at him with my signature hollow stare. I could pull that sort of thing off at the best of times.  
“What?” I asked, unwilling to put forth any assertive energies. I was tired and hungry.  
“Where’s your house? Shouldn’t you be there?”  
I knew I still looked like a noble. My cropped hair and thin frame suggested wealth and idle hours, things the working class weren’t allowed.  
“This is my house,” I said, gesturing towards my surroundings.  
“This is a public space. You can’t sleep here,” he said, aggression pulling his shoulders into an impressively tense form. I gazed ahead blankly.  
“Hey, are you listening? Look up here, gutter punk, go back home unless you wanna end up in the county jail.”  
I continued to stare ahead, hoping he’d leave me alone. I was so, so tired. I only wanted to sleep, and then maybe to eat. I supposed it didn’t really matter.  
The officer reached down to grip my face, letting his putrid breath spill out as he started to speak.  
“Don’t we have a ‘peace treaty’ with you boys these days? Or is that expired now?” interrupted a voice. An angelic voice. I wondered who it belonged to.  
The officer stepped away from my helpless form with movements which mimicked startled deer. I managed to look up, though the view of my savior was still blocked by the police officer’s somewhat meaty figure.  
“Sorry sir, I didn’t know he was a part of your… coven. Seemed like useless filth to me,” was his mumbled response. He toddled away with a sharp nod.  
An angelic face to fit an angelic voice greeted me. He seemed as though he was glowing; long, curly hair barely touching his shoulders and graceful, manicured fingers reached out in front of me. I didn’t understand what they were there for at first.  
“I’m Ario,” he said, lowering his arm to make his intentions more clear. “You’ve been out here for a little while.”  
He took a drag of a cigarette which I hadn’t noticed upon first glance.  
“I think I’ll be out here for my whole life,” I said. Internally, I longed for my whole life to never have happened in the first place.  
“I hope not,” he laughed, “I’ll take you inside, if you’d like.”  
To this day, I believe that if it had been any face other than his offering to take me in, I would’ve denied. But when I hazily took in his porcelain skin and big, doll-like eyes, I almost subconsciously took his hand and let him pull me up.  
The building which I’d been observing was apparently the place where Ario lived, as he led me in through a lot of smoke and noisy men and up a creaky staircase. I eventually found myself on a threadbare sofa with Ario’s concerned nose inserting itself into my life.  
“So, start off with telling me your name,” he said, placing a bowl of rice in my hands. I ate greedily before speaking.  
“Oriol,” I said with hesitation. “I would say my last name but I don’t really think it belongs to me anymore.” At this point, I was being a tad dramatic, but it earned me curious eyes and a concerned frown.  
“Why’s that?” he asked, lighting another cigarette. Did he always keep one in his mouth?  
“Excommunication. Can I have more?” I asked.  
“Rice is cheap, so yes. Why were you excommunicated? Seems shitty.”  
I faltered. Would he kick me out if he knew of my habits? Considering he lived in this shabby, albeit diverse, place (whatever it was) I thought he might be more accepting than my distant relatives had been.  
“I wore a dress to a party,” was my impressive response. It seemed stupid when said out loud.  
“Definitely shitty.”  
“I guess,” I said.  
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me excommunicating you. In fact, I think you probably couldn’t have picked a better place to starve outside of than here.”  
“What is here, then?” I inquired as he spooned more rice into my bowl. I wondered how long I’d been sitting on his couch in silence before he put food in front of me. I wondered if this was a regular occurrence for him. I quit wondering and ate more.  
“It’s a brothel. We’re prostitutes,” he said. It clicked. The starving men and women who came and went from this place weren’t there for food or drink. Of course not.  
“That… makes sense,” I murmured.  
“Anyways, I promise it’s safe here. If you want, you can take my extra mattress. It’s a pretty big one left behind by one of the women I used to room with. Yours for the taking.”  
“That sounds pretty wonderful,” I said, ready to nod off at any moment. He smiled and led me to the room adjacent to his. In the future, I wouldn’t be sure if I regretted this or appreciated it.


End file.
